


In praise of shame

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">Game of Thrones Kink Meme</a>.  </p>
<p>Prompt was <i>Asha/Theon, drunk sex</i>.  Set post-Theon's return to Pyke in <i>A Clash of Kings</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In praise of shame

There are hands reaching around him, but Theon is too far gone to bother to find out whose. All he can do is half-sit, half-lie on the bench, the dregs of the feast surrounding him, a celebration that should have commemorated his glorious return, the prince at last, but had really degraded into a sort of drunken mayhem. It had not been that way at Winterfell, but he reminds himself that things are different here. After all, he’s been away. He’s the stranger in their midst. _Does it really matter in the end?_ he thinks, the wine, sharp and sour to the taste, still filling his nose, still clouding his head. 

The hands clutch him. They are strong yet elegant in their way, large but not ungainly, with tapered fingers, broad knuckles, scrubbled but raw, the nails short, unadorned. He feels breath in his ear, hot against his skin, infused with the ale that had gouted like fountains, and a cheek pressed to his, smooth, as flushed as his. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? You can hardly sit up.” 

He recognizes the voice, and he slowly turns, gazing at Asha from half-closed eyes, bleary with his overindulgence. She is laughing, a smirk cutting across her sharp features like a gash, and Theon joins in, even though he’s not quite sure what is so amusing. When he throws a leg over the bench and attempts to rise, he staggers a bit, Asha’s hands catching him and righting him, and together, they somehow stumble down the hall to someone else’s quarters, an empty room, and Theon thinks that any will do. He’s not particular at this point, a belly full of Arbor Red, and a head full of fog. 

They fall together on the mattress, dust pillowing up, ropes creaking, their limbs a tangle of leathers and silks, coarse cotton and smooth velvet, and he rests there, his eyes closed, mouth slightly open. 

“You really didn’t know me, did you?” Asha’s voice is thick with intoxication, but he can still hear the gentle mockery underneath the slurred words. Her hand is on his chest, fingers twisted in the lacing of his doublet, crushing the plush nap, running over the ridiculous embroidered Kraken that embarrasses him now. She slides a finger inside, its roughness grazing his chest. 

He shakes his head. 

“What was that you said, Brother?” she says then, lightly, her other hand resting on the front of his breeches. “Hard as a mast?” Her palm tenses. “Doesn’t feel that way now.” Asha laughs and does not stop when he grabs her wrist, pinning it to his side. She slides free and they tussle a bit, trying to snatch each others’ fingers, to trap the other, but their reflexes are too muddled and they’re both laughing. 

Asha’s on top of him in the end, her knee grazing his cock, and his body begins to betray him by finding that quite agreeable. As she shifts to find a balance, she notices, and grins again. 

“I was wrong then.” 

He undoes his leathers then, cursing the lacings, stroking himself, staring at her, Asha’s face flushed, her cropped hair hanging forward in her still-merry eyes, lips chapped from the sea wind. It’s close, too close, and when her hand covers his, sliding down his length, he thinks momentarily of stopping her, but thinks that none of this matters, none of this counts, and who is going to remember it later, after all? And by the time he’s puzzled this out, still fogged, she’s undone herself, and taken him inside of herself, her weight bearing down on his supine form, restraining it, thrusting up and up and up, her body, still-clothed, rubbing against his, her fingers digging into the skin and bones of his shoulders. The next day, the curious bruises will remind him of this night, but for now he is content to permit it. 

Asha’s breathing quickens in spurts, and although she does not cry out like the thralls and whores that he’s had, the unabashed look of pleasure on her face is something common to past experience, although he suspects that for his sister, this is genuine, and not part of his coin. When she comes, her thighs clench and her grip tightens, and when she rolls off of him, spent, drowsy, sated, he reaches with shaking hands and finishes what she has left undone. Asha watches, a slight smile on her face, softer than before. 

“You’ve not gone as soft as we’d anticipated,” she murmurs, lurching out of the door once she’s put herself in some semblance of order. 

It’s the last thing that he remembers before blacking out, and the next day, their eyes will not meet for a while, lowered under a vague sense of shame that they both half-recall, neither truly sure of the source, neither willing to truly admit it.


End file.
